Volume II

The ELT Online Reading Group

Foreword: Alan Maley

Editor: Chris Lima

Treading the Poetic Path

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All the texts in this collection are copyright of their authors.

Cover. Photo: New Walk, Leicester, UK - Chris Lima © 2011

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List of contents

Page List of Contents 2

Acknowledgements 4

To the Reader 5

Foreword 6

The Poems 7

The Solitary Reader 8 If… 9 A Poet’s Journey 10 A Rainbow Of Stories 11 Love And Philosophy 12 Reading Poems 13 Waiting For The Train 14 I Apologise 15 We Want Peace 16 She Looks At The Sky 17 The Wrong Way 18 Time Never Dies 19 A Poem Without Any Name 20

The Short Stories 21 The Ogre on the Pavement 22 The Grandma’s Story 24

The ELT Online Reading Group 27

Contacts 30

Useful Links 30

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A poem begins as a lump in the throat.

Robert Frost

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Acknowledgements

To celebrate the fourth anniversary of the ELT e-Reading Group, we have invited English

Language teachers worldwide to use their imagination and become short story writers and

poets themselves. Participants were asked to submit short stories and poems inspired by one of

the texts read in the Group. This volume is the result of their imagination and writing skills.

This publication would have never been possible without the generosity of the authors of these

texts who agreed to contribute to this collection without any financial reward.

Heartfelt thanks to the British Council (BC) and to Rob Lewis, manager of the TeachingEnglish

website, for hosting the Group, providing technical support, and helping to spread the word

about this initiative through various BC channels.

Very special thanks to Alan Maley, who took his precious and highly demanded time to write the

foreword to this publication. Thanks a lot Alan!!

Thanks, above all, to the all our Group members who have been posting to the discussion

board and also following the exchanges there with interest.

Thanks to everybody who has submitted a piece, it was a hard task for the judges to select just

a few. Congratulations to the ones who have been chosen.

We hope you enjoy the stories and poems.

Chris Lima

Project Coordinator / Editor

Leicester, March 2012

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To the reader

At the touch of love everyone becomes a poet. Plato

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Foreword

First I must say how delighted I was to be invited to contribute the Foreword to this amazing

collection of work. My congratulations go to Chris Lima for her inspiration and support, and to

all of the teacher-writers who contributed their work. I have immensely enjoyed reading the

present selection. I should also congratulate the British Council for setting up and supporting

the ELT Online Reading Group.

I am particularly pleased because I am a staunch believer in the power of reading, both for

students and for teachers. I know from my own experience as a language learner how

motivating it can be when we realise that we can read a whole book in the new language. It is a

quantum leap. And I think it is particularly important that we read literary, not just professional

texts. Literature touches the places in the heart and mind that other texts cannot reach.

But the idea of creating new literary texts in the foreign language goes one step further. How

much more motivating it is to realise that we have it in us to make texts for ourselves, not simply

to consume them. What is more, the texts we write may be more accessible to our students

than those sometimes culturally and linguistically-remote texts we are asked to teach.. And how

inspiring for our students to know that these texts were written by their own teacher!

I have been working with a group very like yours in the Asia region for the past 10 years. The

only difference is that we actually meet from time to time in each other’s’ countries to write and

discuss our work. Like you, we also publish but in book form rather than on- line. It has been a

great stimulus to me in my own work as a writer and teacher trainer to watch our group

members grow, linguistically, professionally but above all personally. This is empowerment in a

very real sense. To conclude, here are two reflections from our group members. I think they

say it all.

Writing is to relive your life Writing is to share your emotions Writing is to sharpen your mind Writing is to release your tensions.

(Vishnu, Nepal)

‘I have learned that writing is a very important skill not only for study but also for life and that writing is not only for communication but also for creativity (to sharpen our creative senses). Writing creatively is not only for specialists (or famous creative writers) but for everybody. It is very empowering to know that I can write creatively (it was an amazing feeling when I finished writing my first short story in English). I have never written a story even in Burmese, although I have written lots of academic essays.’ (Tan Bee, Burma)

I wish you every success in future. Keep writing! Keep learning! Keep developing!

Alan Maley

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The Poems

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The Solitary Reader

Mostafa Mouhibe

Morocco

Behold her single in the text,

Young solitary reading lady;

Reading and dreaming by herself,

Stopping here, or gently passing!

Alone she smiles but often cries,

And talks to the imaginary skies:

Oh! Look how beautiful

And charming…

When she turns the page,

With anxious and exciting rage.

Her face would blossom

Like an early spring bud,

But would faint when summer blows

its cruel breath.

For she is at the mercy

Of the magic but unsure rhymes.

Words are her yachts

Flirting with the fluid like world

Haunted by the tantalizing

And protean spectres of sense.

Yearning for a volatile meaning,

She could embrace or touch

With her mortal and lovely soft hands.

In vain she dreams

Of freezing up or catching

The fleeing notions of time and lands.

Reading is but a daydreaming,

Overstepping the limits

Of this indifferent earthly life.

Full of deceit and angelic lies.

Sacred is her fictive world,

When space and time

Are not real but as sweet

As my solitary sugary lime.

Inspired by Wordsworth’s The Solitary Reaper

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If… Marcos Nhapulo

Mozambique

if love is something lost somewhere we all don’t know,

then it is everywhere we go!

if love has something to do with feelings,

then you know my feelings,

if love is found somewhere we don't expect it to be,

then I have found it in your eyes!

if love can be felt twice,

then we will meet again…

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A Poet’s Journey Marcos Nhapulo

Mozambique

No false dear, no true fear…

No need to beg for nature,

Because it’s for good and bad

It’s for deaf and blind and for all the corners

It’s for animals and trees and clouds and the empty sky...

No need to bend the tail you don’t have

No need to cry where you can fly

No need to shout where you can smile

No need shame where there is no blame

No, no, no...

No human has twenty-one fingers,

No need to go back and forth

As humans will always drive you,

No, don’t listen when they shout

That’s not what this life is about.

And don’t listen again,

When they try to put you down

When it’s time to get up and stand for your life

No need to call God to humans,

No need to love or hate these words,

No need to know about all meanings,

No need to lie when it’s time to tell the truth;

No need to beg for your own life

No need to beg,

No need...

No.

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A Rainbow Of Stories

Maria do Céu Pires Costa

Portugal

A rainbow of stories

Unfolded with emotion,

Determination, great passion,

Even compassion, care,

And true love so rare!

Friendly people welcomed us

Gently offering their smile

We never doubted a while

It was genuine, sincere,

Causing joy, well-being near.

Legendary venues indeed

Captured our attention

For their colours, sweet flavours,

Hot fragrances all around

That atmosphere- a busy crowd.

Beyond strolls, stunning views

Invited us to a quiet reflection

Of a real thankfulness

For the experience lived

And divinely blessed!

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Love And Philosophy Maria do Céu Pires Costa

Portugal

The girl born to a father-Professor And a mother of noble virtues A couple truly industrious Who raised their daughter dear. They inculcated the girl With principles to succeed But she didn’t heed Her parents call. In the presence of a young Student Who fell in love passionately For her, she replied arrogantly Rather than being pleasant. “I might well trust you Only if you handed me A red rose in much glee Fully scented, too.” He got desperate, sorrowful Lying on the grass, weeping For no red rose was he finding But his heart beating painful. As the Nightingale saw him Devastated by his grief She quickly thought of his relief And pursued her noble dream. Her quest – a case of true love Was followed in music by moonlight And blood from her heart To flow into the Tree with love. Fainter and fainter grew The Nightingale’s sweet song She had joyfully sung for long To see the Tree red rose fresh like dew.

The girl challenged that young lad Who again approached her charmingly Offering the red rose romantically: “Please, accept it with my love – red…” Lured by jewels glittering The girl didn’t appreciate the rose Saying with unnatural pose: “I’d rather have a diamond ring.” “Oh, let me find a book Where I can learn lessons of love To feel more passionate than a dove And by both be eternally hooked!” Inspired by Wilde’s The Nightingale and the Rose

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Reading Poems

Francisco Langa (Tanguene)

Mozambique

When you believe

and suddenly they tell you

and you ask

and they tell you again

but why not believe then

you ask, right!

Imagine a book with its cover

then the book lost the cover

how can you read it?

If it’s a poetry book,

poems don’t come on covers

look inside the poem

find on the pages inside

and believe you found them

and their meaning.

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Waiting For The Train Francisco Langa (Tanguene)

Mozambique

raising eyes

looked at those sitting there

across the road

when they stood up

one by one

it was coming

thought it was coming

the whistle, oh! Heard it

looked at the horizon

saw nothing but the empty

motionless blue sky

it’s coming

really it’s coming

the train is coming.

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I Apologise Francisco Langa (Tanguene)

Mozambique

I apologise for being the road

Where carts, cars and people tread on my backs

And go about their business

I apologise for being the day

…

I apologise for being the night

All people masked

And all become worst

I apologise for being the sun

The sunrays heating the air

Making rain comes

I apologise for being the rain

The crops grow by my strength

And I have no mouth to eat a single grain

I apologise for being the rain

Watering people who have no blame

In the streets where live makers

I apologise for being the maker

Of these lines that will tell you nothing

Even if they were all but a poem

I apologise for being poems

That you read and found out

they have lost sense.

I apologise for being this poem

Reading me,

Exploring me

For your pleasure

Then guess I mean nothing!

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We Want Peace

Heba Abdel Azim

Egypt

It is our duty to struggle for the return of our land

It is our duty to cooperate and be one hand

It is our duty to spread peace in our nation

And stop the violence and avoid the separation

It is our duty to fight our enemy

And beat the arrogance and the hegemony

We should prove that we are not a scapegoat

And that we have a great cultural thought

It is our duty to prove our existence

Even if it is by defence and resistance

It is our duty to return the civilians` rights

Even if it requires entering in wars or fights

We seek peace and security

But defending our land is a priority

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She Looks At The Sky Heba Abdel Azim

Egypt

She looks at the sky

To see the moon

Then she remembers

That her lover is returning soon.

She looks at the sky

To see the sun

Then cries

“My lover is gone”

She looks at the sky

To see the stars

Then shout out loudly

“My lover is far”

She looks at the sky

Hoping that her lover might come back

But then she realises

That what goes will never return

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The Wrong Way Dírio Rodrigues Dambile

Mozambique

A single day

I saw her in my way

So beautiful in tidy smiles

She walked carefully

In the red and white striped skirt

That matched with her shirt.

She got into my heart

Nothing I had to start

Unless just to say

I like you in my way.

It was all the same

She found no fun in the game

That was a wrong aim

Because like me

She had her own aim.

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Time Never Dies Dírio Rodrigues Dambile

Mozambique

Like fools

Chasing the wind

Aimlessly to no direction - we chase

The watch never stops

Tick, tick, tick, tick

Time runs

But we chase

I chase

You chase

He, she, it chases

We, you, they chase

Humans chase

Animals chase

Every creature chases

We live in dreams

In unfulfilled goals

Chasing hopefully

The Time never found

We find alive, it lives?

We survive and die

We are passers-by

Life time goes

Tock, tock, tock, tock

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A Poem Without Any Name Sanghita Sen

India

Breaking the bleak beaks of barrenness

life unleashes itself.

Sun still shined

Earth spinned

Water flowed

Birds chirped.

But moon marooned

And stars stopped shivering from afar.

I waited for a glimpse of the known world

of the imagined world

of the world to be.

Existence passes away

Words remain.

The ownership of my words

I bestow upon you.

If they remain

They'll tell you

Once upon a time there was a woman

Who day-dreamt...

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The Short Stories

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The Ogre on the Pavement Bartolome Tscharner

Switzerland

It happens from time to time that I’m strolling along the streets as if they didn’t exist or

if they had even been built only a moment ago. Something of this sort happened to me

the other day. As I went daydreaming through the streets of Norwich with all those

marvellously crammed shop windows, my strolling view was attracted here by an

Indian Buddha and there by a pierced British belly. It was like walking through

paradise, slumbered by this drowning lullaby coming up from the streets. My thoughts

hopped from the flavour of Australian wine to the smell of English cookies. They ran

past cars, overtook pedestrians and barked silently at dogs.

Then they were suddenly attracted by this two and half year-old boy hopping and

pouncing in front of me, some steps behind a long-haired lady, obviously his mother,

although very young herself. She prodded a pram in front of her. I kept paying attention

to the boy because he apparently didn’t want to obey his mother. That’s why she

shrieked out orders to behave, to follow her, to sit in the pram, to …and to … and to …

But all these orders bounced like sparkles bouncing out of a chimney to splash on the

pavement and fizzle out. The boy ran here and there and everywhere. His mother was

trying in vain to tame her whirlwind.

‘Come here, naughty boy, come here sweetheart’, she squeaked again and again.

‘Otherwise you’ll be caught by this ogre that follows us. You see him? There he is!’

And the boy’s lovely mother pointed at me if I were an antlered or fire-spitting monster

intending to devour all misbehaving children. The boy was puzzled, maybe by my

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friendliness or by his mother’s warning. He sometimes ran towards her; sometimes

waited for me to approach him. I enjoyed the game and wrinkled my forehead making

squeaking noises too, just for fun. But then, at a certain moment the boy couldn’t laugh

at my frowns anymore. He seemed to be scared – I don’t know, either of the dreadful

story his mother had told him before or of my grimaces. He began to flee, but staggered

and tripped over his feet. He fell over the kerb into the busy street. I needn’t tell you that

my legs and my heart turned to jelly.

The boy cried, the mother in despair yelled and let go of the pram. There was the

rumbling of approaching cars. The baby was creeping in the road; the pram was rolling

there too. Then the squealing of brakes suffocated the shouts of the mother and the cries

of her child. The first car to pass skidded. The driver was about to lose control. It

crossed the central line and finished up in the bonnet of an on-coming van. A terrible

bang blared through the street and echoed from the nearby churchyard walls.

The baby was safe. The cars were wrecks. The pram smashed in between. The outraged

mother was banging on me with her shopping bag full of jars of marmalade. The furious

drivers were blaming the thoughtless mother. The mother was still hitting me with a

now torn bag and the pavement became unnecessarily sticky with lumps of marmalade

and pieces of shattered glass, whereas the boy was saved and comforted by a passing

old man.

‘It was just for fun’, I chipped between the incoming whips.

And I will give you a piece of advice – never make fun with an unruly boy on a foreign

pavement if his mother is carrying jars of marmalade in her shopping bag.

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The Grandma’s Story

Francisco Langa (Tanguene)

Mozambique

The young priest stood up, opened the book and quickly closed without reading it, then

said, ‘There’s time for everything.’ He scrutinised the old book and held one end of the

red string that was tied at one end of the book - the red silk thread cutting through the

pages. He kept looking at the open page as he was to decipher the letters on and then

closed the book, whispered some unintelligible words sounds of a prayer and carefully

put the book on the table in front of him. ‘A time to weep, a time to laugh’, he said

looking at the crowd that gathered around. He looked away, pulled the red string and

went back to the same page he had opened before, looked without reading, then read in

a loud voice, ‘Vanity of vanities, saith the Preacher, vanity of vanities; all is vanity.’ He

clasped his hands. “For the living knows that they shall die, but the dead know not…”

Before silence came, a chant broke out. Women at the top of their voices brought about

harmonious sounds mingled with tears which engulfed the scene, some voices were

chirping like cold sparrows twittering on the ground early in a misty morning, waiting

for the sunbeam to dry their feathers, waiting for their time to fly.

This is the grandma’s story.

Grandma always told stories and when she was telling stories we all kept quiet and

listened, for she had wisdom and knew almost everything about life. And the things she

did not know she did not tell, she only told what she knew about and would not accept

objections at all. She said, ‘For educated people to disagree with the elderly means lack

of respect for people who brought you in the world.’ She felt sad about the youngsters

who do not respect anymore the old who know almost everything and lived when

family education was at the core of all societies. Before the twist of morals seen today,

there were good times, before all societies of the world grew sick in a social

miscarriage. She told of the time sanity was all over the world, not today that all the

people sound maladjusted. This story has to be believed and to object it was to risk not

hearing a word from her mouth anymore until her death, she promised. She swore that,

at any sign of disbelief, all the told stories of the world would become untold. She read

our faces and asked, ‘Do you believe it?’ All in unison, ‘Yes!’ ‘If you don’t believe it,

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so don’t believe all that I told you before, and I’m no longer your grandma, is it that you

want?’ ‘No grandma, we believe in all you say, grandma.’ She nodded, waited for a

while, and as she kept silent. The voices in unison came again before the worst ‘Yes,

Grandma, you’ve always told us the truth, tell us this story.’ She adjusted her headscarf.

Her vemba1’s knot was a bit loose and she tightened it with both her hands. When she

stood up the voices in unison came again, ‘Please grandma, tell us the story. We believe

it.’ She got ready to speak again.

The young priest asked, ‘Is there anyone who wants to say a word?’ A gentleman in a

white shirt with red small dots raised his hand and stood up. ‘What we know is that our

daughter has left something that would break our hearts if not cared for. She leaves

behind two children in your hands. We ask our son-in-law to pay due respect to that and

not do what he has done to our daughter.’ The gentleman sat down as people looked at

one another and whispered about the meaning of the gentleman’s words. We did not

understand, confessed Grandma, what he meant or what he was trying to tell. His

daughter left the world of the living and he only knew about it the very day of the

funeral. He was divorced and left the children with his ex-wife, went to live with

another wife, and did not know his daughter was ill. He only knew she was dead, when

from work he received a call on his cell phone. ‘What?’, he asked. ‘That is true,’ said

the caller. And Grandma looked at our faces and searched for any sign of disbelief. She

looked at her snuff tin, but as she saw we all agreed, she gave up from taking some

tobacco to her nose. She kept silent for some seconds - her eyes smiling - and showed

she was ready to continue telling the story.

‘I have left my daughter with her mother and now you tell me she was living with a man

and has got children, things I don’t know about. How did that happen?’ The gentleman

with a white shirt with red small dots raised his voice from where he sat without

standing now. A small delegation was asked to advise him to go aside and have a brief

private talk with his ex-wife as they saw he was nervous, said Grandma. Some

whispered that the man was very annoyed at this, for he did not wear the suit that a

father should rightfully wear at the lobola2 of his daughter. He was heard asking his ex-

wife, ‘If you have put on such mukume3 for my child to go and live with her husband,

who did put on the jacket that was rightfully for her father?’ Silence. ‘Who?’ Silence.

The priest approached them, raised his hand and asked for silence. ‘This is not the time

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to argue. ‘The sun rises and sets. We should be happy and enjoy life for the living

knows they shall pass away, but… We’re told here your daughter fell ill and we should

not look for witches. If we’ll be digging a pit, we’ll soon fall in it.’

Grandma stopped and read on our faces to find out if there was any sign of disbelief.

We all nodded. By looking at her smile we knew she would continue. Whatever it was,

it was a hard story to tell. Grandma did not say so, but we knew it. We read her wrinkles

and they told us a lot without telling. We knew this was not a pleasant story for

Grandma to tell. She did not show us but her heart was bleeding for we saw the red

stains on the right side of her blouse. They were really red.

The in-laws said the girl’s father-in-law had once visited the deceased years before she

had children, but it was just once. She was living with her partner who told the father-

in-law they were young but wanted to build a family. They wanted to own a house and

they wanted to live like husband and wife. They wanted to get a proper lobola and live

the way the grown-ups live but it was just too difficult. There was no work like it used

to be before. What is the value of ceremony in poor livelihoods when you only get by

pushing a cart along the streets? As for lobola, he would pay if he had money. ‘Not

easy, everything difficult’, the young widower said. They needed a house, clothes and

food for themselves and the children. The lobola would come one day. ‘Time for

everything,’ Grandmother took a deep breath.

The gentleman in the white shirt, the father of the late girl, was given time for final

remarks before the funeral preceded as it was right. He asked his relatives and

companions to stand up and then, to the surprise of all, dismissed them, ‘We will come

for the funeral after we get her lobola; otherwise it will be a curse on us and our

descendents - we will never be forgiven.’ They left the graveyard, and a loud cry broke

out. Grandma read the expressions on our faces and didn’t find any sign of disbelief.

We all nodded, ‘Yes.’ ‘The girl’, said Grandma, ‘not buried yet, is still waiting for

lobola.’

Glossary

1. Vemba – Capulana 2. Lobola – (traditional) marriage, it traditionally legitimates marriage 3. Mukume –bigger cloth made of 4 capulanas that women dress or take to ceremonies and special events

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The ELT Online Reading Group

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The ELT Online Reading Group The Group was created by a collective of English language educators from all over the world

with the technical support of the British Council. It aims at encouraging ELT professionals to

read literature in English, helping to build bridges between cultures and contributing to build

tolerance and intercultural competence through the discussion of works literature.

The group meets online and participants post their comments to a discussion board, sharing

their points of view on short stories and poems written in English.

The ELT Online Reading Group was launched in August 2007, being originally hosted at the

British Council enCompass website and moved into TeachingEnglish in August 2010. It was

created having especially in mind those English language professionals who work in special

conditions; teachers who have little access to libraries and books in English; who work in

remote areas or conflict zones where it is almost impossible to guarantee safety and the right to

public gatherings and/or who count on little support to start a reading group in their workplaces.

About the project

Over the past few years the popularity of Reading Groups has dramatically increased in the UK

and around the world, becoming a place to cultivate dialogue and discussion along distinct

themes. The enCompass website, the British Council worldwide reading group, provided the

main inspiration for this project; however, the difficult access to reading material faced by some

English language teachers and educators working in different countries prompted us to create

an online reading group instead of a group meeting in a specific place or time.

The group for is open to all ELT professionals who want to join it. A text, usually a short story or

poem, is chosen each month and participants are invited to post their comments to the group

discussion board.

Our objectives

• To encourage English language teachers to read literature in English, creating opportunities to

get in contact with texts from different countries, periods and authors;

• To promote debate and an in-depth engagement with relevant issues through the discussion

of works literature;

• To provide opportunities for teachers to talk to each other online underpinning the reading

habit and building an ELT community of readers;

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• To help English language educators to see other points of view connecting them to a wider

world, other philosophies and new ideas building bridges between, and insight into, other

cultures thus contributing to build tolerance and intercultural competence;

• To create opportunities for English Language teachers to develop their own language skills,

increasing vocabulary, improving pronunciation and increasing their understanding of idiom and

expressions as well as their command of the language as a whole.

Our resources

To make the reading material widely accessible, the texts are chosen from free online sources.

A link to the text of the month is posted to the group discussion board and participants can

download it. Texts are chosen based on their accessibility, interest and potential to raise debate

on complex and relevant issues.

Join the debate

To become a member of the ELT Online Reading Group, you first need to register or log in on

TeachingEnglish. You can then join in and talk to other readers around the world. It's easy to

do. Read the postings, then choose which to post to and click on reply.

BBC/ British Council TeachingEnglish

http://www.teachingenglish.org.uk/

The ELT Online Reading Group http://www.teachingenglish.org.uk/group/elt-online-reading-group

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Contacts

Bartolome Tscharner tscharner.savognin@bluewin.ch

Dirio Rodrigues Bambile ddambile@gmail.com

Francisco Daniel Langa franciscolanga@hotmail.com

Heba Adbel Azim lovely-nature@hotmail.com

Marcos Nhapulo marcnhapulo@yahoo.com.br

Maria do Céu Pires Costa mceupc@hotmail.com

Mostafa Mouhibe mmouhibe@yahoo.co.uk

Sanghita Sen sanghitasen@gmail.com

Chris Lima, editor chrislima90@yahoo.co.uk

Useful Links

BritLit http://www.teachingenglish.org.uk/try/britlit

WordPowered

http://www.wordpowered.org/

British Council. Arts – Literature

http://www.britishcouncil.org/arts-literature

IATEFL Literature Media and Cultural Studies Special Interest Group

http://lmcs.iatefl.org/

The Extensive Reading Foundation

http://www.erfoundation.org/erf/

For further links on literature, online reading sources, and literary criticism also visit

http://thebookworms.wordpress.com/

The ELT Online Reading Group © 2012 http://www.teachingenglish.org.uk/group/elt-online-reading-group

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